The Hitchhiker's Guide to Subspace
by Kal Ancalas
Summary: In which an attempt to educate readers about the dangers and idiosyncrasies of Subspace is viciously butchered by pop culture references, financial statements, and Canada, as Solid Snake and Captain Olimar learn the hard way. No Snake x Olimar pairing.


_**Preface**_

Once upon a time, there was a faraway land.

It was a land in which strikingly muscled peasant boys with swords fought alongside strikingly buxom thirteen year-old magic-wielding orphan girls against despotic middle-aged tyrants who had nothing better to do than slaughter unimportant people and knit themselves weird costumes with too much black and weird spiral designs.

It was a land where one did not bleed, but rather crossed one's fingers as they prayed that their +7 Ultima Gold Dragon Aegis would be enough to prevent their HP from dropping below zero as they reeled from the Level 5 Limit Break Special Attack that had just been activated by their balding scepter-wielding foe who spoke with a strange accent, probably Eastern European.

It was a land where your own father would attempt several times to destroy you, your friends, and the world in cold blood before suddenly having a change of heart and sacrificing himself for the good of all mankind.

Unfortunately, this story does not concern that land, which is a shame because it would at least have been interesting in that case.

This is not a tale of heroes, glory, and swords, but rather a tale of realism, terminal stupidity, and bad credit ratings.

This is a chronicle of a few souls who by chance and highly complicated metaphysics formulas became entangled in a chain of increasingly disastrous and idiotic events not seen since any movie with Ben Affleck in it.

This is a warning on why you should always carry your 1.5" three-ring binder on your person at all times, and why a Primid should never attempt to mate with a Towtow, among other things.

The author of this story would first like to stress that any similarities between characters in this story and people, places or things in real life are purely not coincidental, and that such parallels were intended as direct attempts to violate various commercial licenses.

However, the author of this story would also like to affirm that in writing this piece, nothing except the greatest degree of respect, admiration, and adulation is intended towards the late, great Douglas Adams, who has posthumously been declared the president pro tempore of at least 42 countries, as well as a cheese-processing plant in Quebec. The author would like to honor Mr. Douglas' memory in light of the great inspiration he has received from Mr. Douglas' epic _Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy _series, which has wonderfully enlightened untold generations of humanity since its release, and will undoubtedly continue to do so in the future.

The author of this story would also like to thank the great and illustrious figure known as razzkat, who has followed in the steps of Mr. Douglas in ways that only mere mortals can dream of. The author, in a completely subtle product placement, strongly suggests that the reader take the time to read one or more of the aforementioned authoress's fabulous stories, unless he/she is willing to deprive him/herself of the works of a modern genius and thus die unenlightened. Again, the author thanks razzkat for her devotion and support to his efforts.

Also, the author of this story strongly suggests that the reader please click the small blue button located at the bottom of the page once he/she is done reading an installment of the story, so that he/she can leave a thoughtful, constructive review that will tell the author how to better his abilities for the future enjoyment of others. The readers should please note that people who have left inherently inane comments regarding the author's sexuality as well as requests for him to engage in self-copulation have subsequently reported terrible personal events happening to them such as being waterboarded, forcibly eating hot coals, or watching Ellen DeGeneres. Obviously, for your personal safety, such behavior is not recommended.

The author of this story would also have liked to state that he was very constipated, but the editors and publisher have, for unknown reasons, unscrupulously decided to leave this comment out.

Lastly, the author would also like to apologize deeply to the country of Canada and its citizens at this time. It must be stated that some (much) of the narration and dialogue in this story contains language that may be derogatory to residents of Canada (note: to those who happen to be residents of Canada, the word 'derogatory' means insulting). The author would like to stress that such language was deemed necessary by the editors and publisher to retain the original "flavor" of the story, and does not reflect the author's, editors', or publisher's personal views, or those of anyone else affiliated with this story. In light of this disclaimer, the author would like to request not to be attacked by drunken revelers with hockey sticks, as he finds it somewhat inconvenient.

Incidentally, the author would like to state that he absolutely adores Mike Myers and Jim Carrey, but admits that he finds the work of William Shatner a tad flaky.

_-July 17, 2008_

--

On the morning of October 6, 1992, the sun had risen halfway in the sky, but you couldn't know it by looking. This could have been because the sky was extremely gray and cloudy that day, but more likely because you weren't there at the time, and couldn't have testified to such a statement.

It was one of those days where nothing was bound to go right, the sort of day that takes whatever happy thoughts you might have been feeling that morning and yanks them out through your belly button, an inch at a time. On those days, Fate herself seems laughing at you, all the while taking photos of your distress and putting them up on eBay.

This detail was especially important to Captain Olimar, one of the many participants in the legendary Smash Brothers fighter tournament. For Olimar, such days seemed to be especially excruciating and painful, much like the kidney stone he had vacated from his system a week ago. Damn Kirby's chili to hell.

Then again, for someone in Olimar's profession, every day ended up being like that in the end.

Olimar shook his head, his eyes transfixed on the looming horizon that greeted him outside his bedroom window. He gazed resentfully at the silver-lined clouds mocking him, treasure he could not reach. Every cloud might have a silver lining, but that still left 99.99 percent gray crap.

Olimar opened his closet and waded through a mass of Hocotate erotica periodicals before he retrieved a glass helmet, gleaming on its hook as a rare ray of sunlight shined off it through the window.

Olimar set the helmet on his head and secured it, admiring himself in the mirror. It was really an excellent helmet, he thought to himself. He had picked it up a couple years ago at the local thrift store for half-price because the glass it had been made from had been part of a batch that had unluckily been contaminated by the body of a mechanic who had accidentally fallen into the vat of molten glass while repairing a hydraulic gauge. Over time, Olimar had learned that if you squinted, the blackened bits near the top of the glass looked a bit like a butterfly.

There was a sudden knock on the door. Olimar barely gave it a cursory glance before it whipped open, revealing an ill-shaven man in military fatigues, red-eyed, grenades, C4, and other ordnance hanging from his belt.

"What the bloody hell are you still doing in here?!"

As a result of an embarrassing childhood incident involving a circus and some misplaced alcohol, Solid Snake had never really liked pointy-eared midgets in space suits. His attitude had not been improved any by the fact that one was his roommate.

Olimar ignored the FOXHOUND unit's frank question, instead cocking his head to one side so that the butterfly's wings sprouted out of Snake's cheeks.

"We've got a match today against the Gaylords." Snake announced with no particular affection, throwing himself onto his own bed and pulling out a thin book seemingly from thin air.

Olimar sighed. "I'll admit it was funny the first 173 times, but you have got to stop calling Ike and Pit that."

"Everyone else in the free world does, why shouldn't we?" Snake replied, with the approximate enthusiasm of a dead hamster.

Olimar was in the process of aligning the butterfly with Snake's crotch when a dull ringing sound suddenly rang through the small room.

"I'll get it." Olimar wandered into his closet, digging through flyers advertising the third-largest silicone implants in Hocotate, until he found a small pager, slightly stained with age. He shook the pager once and pressed a small button on its side before bringing it to his ear.

Even Snake couldn't ignore the unmistakable look of tension that had suddenly spread across the Hocotate captain's face, the pager hitting the floor with a soft thud.

"You look terrible." Snake muttered, barely raising an eyebrow. "I've got a load of suppositories to deal with this sort of thing, they're in the upper drawer next to the Vaseline..."

It should be said that Snake had no personal affection for Olimar in making his offer, but he figured having a constipated midget in the same room as he was ultimately not going to do him any favors.

"Forget it." Olimar slumped similarly onto his own bed, feeling his body sink into the soft covers.

For the first time in his entire career as a Smasher, they felt uncomfortable.

Snake actually lowered his book a half-inch to fire a death glare towards Olimar, still prostrate on the bed. "You better get your ass to the lavatory soon, because I can guarantee you a slow, painful death if your emissions affect my enjoyment of this story."

"There's no point," Olimar deadpanned, "not when the world's going to be destroyed in an hour."

Snake took one last long look at Olimar, taking in the Hocotate captain's expression. His eyes, for once in his life, were emotionless and empty.

"Fucking brilliant, Nostradamus." Snake muttered, turning his attention back to his book as he flipped to the next page.

He was really starting to wonder if those damn green eggs and ham were ever going to get eaten.


End file.
